It rained last night, so I stayed out in one of the hammocks for the first hour or so. It was wonderful! When I came inside, drenched to the bone in front and dry as a bone in back, I began thinking of the hammock in a nautical light, and jotted down a few lines about it. This is nowhere near finished (it needs another stanza, at least, not to mention editing), but I thought I’d share the poem at this stage, since I won’t have time to work on it for a while:

A berth on the low seas moored
between two giants
erstwhile masts
of greening oak
and swing.
The storm pounds down
around its gunwhales
shed and
pooling to surge up again
and creak.
The small grey craft scrabbling
vainly for a foothold
on the steep slopes
of a pending liquid avalanche
and swish.